


Echoes In The Dark

by Somethingunknown



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Coma, F/M, I might not return to it, Love, Mental Breakdown, Mentions of Rape, Mentions of Violence, Mentions of attempted suicide, WIP, mental issues, mentions of self harm, rehabilitation center
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-09 00:55:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1962831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somethingunknown/pseuds/Somethingunknown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Juno is at a rehabilitation center, where she meets John (whom she thinks works there). She doesn't know why or for how long she has been there, but she can guess that the truth waiting for her isn't going to be very nice...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Echoes In The Dark

The fresh air rushed into my body, sharpening my senses and clearing my mind. A wind was shuffling the leaves of the tall oaks and birches above me. The sturdy male nurse (I presumed) stood just out of reach. I was in my wheelchair, and it must have been a bumpy ride thorugh the park, but I couldn't really remember it.

"Excuse me, do you know how long I've been here?" I asked the pensive nurse's back.

"Oh, hello Juno!" He turned around and searched my eyes, smiling. "Yes. You've been here for almost a month now.

Dread washed over my body for a split second. What was wrong with me, that put me here? That had kept me here for so long? I must have had an accident of some sort. The nurse was still scrutinizing me, as if expecting something: He was waiting for me to remember.

But I didn't. I simply couldn't.

"Do you know who you are?" He asked.

"Yes," I snorted, "I just can't remember how I got here. Do people know I'm here - like my family and my friends?"

"Yes, they do," he smiled as if a great weight was lifted from his back. Then his eyes flickered to the ground. "Actually, they've been to visit you mutiple times."

A picture of my younger brother peeking up at me from behind my mom, suddenly flashed before my eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I remember. My brother was wearing a horrible lime coloured t-shirt, right? And they got me a big, heavy book, which is ridiculous, 'cause I hate reading."

"Yes," he said smiling warmly at me; but the hands at his sides kept clenching and unclenching anxiously. "That was just last saturday - today is wednesday - ," he intejected. "What else can you remember?"

"Not much really," I admitted.

"Do you remember the room you've been staying at? With the very lovely orangey walls?"

Again, the same picture of my brother popped ud, and this time I noticed the room we were in. I also noticed my father standing beside an old desk in the back of the room.

"Yeah, I remember." I had a slight ringing in my ears and I was so tired, I could have fallen asleep right there in the wheelchair in the middle of a park. "I'm... What time is it?" I frowned and he copied my expression. "I'm sooo wasted right now."

He smiled. "Five thirty. Come on, I'll wheel you back"

_____________________________

"Wow. I don't think I ever slept this much, or this hard in my entire life. I sleep like the dead." I thought for a moment, looking at the male nurse, while he flitted around finding clothes for me. "Or perhaps I sleep like someone who's been in a coma?" I asked suggestively.

He finally turned around to look at me with those blue eyes of his. "You have been in a coma, yes. For about three days. All that sleep, and the sleep you're getting now help the body recover." He gave me a reassuring smile. "Sleeping is very good for you, Juno." Then he reached out for me and I used his strenght to stand up on my own legs. "Perhaps after rehabilitation hour, we'll sit down, and I'll tell you your story if you're feeling up for it?"

"That sounds like a plan," I smiled, desperately needing to know what had happened to me, but at the same time never, ever wanting talking about it. I feared remembering the pain I must have been in.

I was now able to remember and seperate the days that came. I had gotten the weekly schedule down, ans I was spending most of my time with the male nurse. His name was John, by the way: A kind and calm man, with a dry sense of humour; very pleasant to be with. He was the instantly-trustworthy type.

i spent a lot of my time in rehabilitation, mainly training my muscles and my balance. It was very boring, and yet it exhausted me beyond belief. Today I was learning how to walk. The physio therapist, a fifty something woman called Ruth, was litterally grabbing my ankles as I walked slowly, holding on to a walking frame that made me feel 80 years old. "You have to take it slow," she kept repeating over and over. And yet still, I managed to stumble everytime my concentration wavered the slightest bit. It felt odd, not being able to do simple things like walk, when you actually can. Like typing on a new keyboard. Frustrating beyond belief.

When the time was finally up I got back into my wheelchair, (Ruth insisted I keep using it, even though I'd tried to convince her I didn't need it). Seeing John nowhere, I wheeled myself slowly towards the communal cafeteria. "Rehabilitation Center North urged its patients to eat together in the cafeteria, as it was a rehabilitation center 'both of the body and the mind'. This in return made me feel like a kindergartener. No less because of the patients that ate their had the mental capacities of 5 year olds. Though most of the patients were fine, some of them were completely out of it, drooling and a looking around with emty eyes. It creeped me out, especially knowing that I was probably just like that a mere month ago. I didn't like the thought of my family seeing me like that. No wonder my poor brother was scared of me. And John. I shuddered at a mental picture of him trying to feed me. Jesus christ. Best supress that thought.

He appeared just in time to open the doors to the cafteria for me. "Sorry I'm late, Juno" he said, looking agitated, "I was on the phone and it dragged out."

I looked straight ahead, clenched my jaws and said "I'll never forgive you," as I wheeled past him. I heard him snorting, and I grinned happily.

_____________________________

The time finally came when he told me my story. It was worse than I thought.

I had been on a date with my boyfriend (someone I had no recollection of whatsoever), and we were on our way home, when a group of four men attacked us in an alley. They had beaten us both and taken turns on raping me while the others had forced my boyfriend to watch. After the whole ordeal (lasting approximately fifteen minutes) had ended, the men ran off. Then the police showed up and we were taken to the hospital. 

As John was telling me this, I fell completely silent, every sound but his voice muffled. This was someone else's story, not mine. I felt numb.

But that was not the end of it. The attack had not put me into a coma. I had been released after just one day, moving temporarily back in with my family. My boyfriend was released only a day later than that, but we had had very little contact (John didn't mention if he knew why, but he certainly didn't look happy about it). We had talked with a sort of private detective together, who had the attackers caught the very same day.

Then, just under a week after the attack, I had locked myself into a toilet at that same hospital and cut open my thighs. When they found me I had already gone into shock, and had actually died for two minutes, before they managed to revive me, and put me in a coma for three days. It had taken two tries to wake me up again, and after two more days I had been moved to the rehabilitation center. Then began the month of sleeping, eating and training. After the first two weeks there I had begun 'waking up mentally' in glimpses, especially during visits from my family. But not until the day in the park had I interacted with anyone with such coherence. 

John sighed and leaned back in the chair. He looked grieved, and I felt sorry for him, but still I had this funny feeling about him. Like having a nightmare about someone and then being mad at them in waking life.

During the last month I had had very little waking life. For almost a full month, my brain had stood still, but now it was whirring more intensly than ever, sending colors and tastes and sounds into my thoughts. I suddenly remebered moving back home, my dad arriving late at night with clothes from my flat. I remembered late evenings drinking tea with my mother, and watching telly. She had taken sick leave and refused to leave me alone. I even remembered the odd detective coming to interview me. 

"I remember," I forced myself to say. John was watching me keenly. 

"What do you remember?"

"That detective, what was his name? He had a funny name, I'm sure of it..."

"Sherlock," John choked out. 

"Yes! Sherlock Holmes: the world's only consulting detective. God, he was ridiculous." I grinned at the image in my head of the highly intelligent man acting like a four year old.

"He tends to make an impression," John nodded.

"Yeah. Wait, do you know him?"

"He is a friend of mine, yes."

I knitted my eyebrows. Things didn't connect anymore. They shouldn't have met at that time. I thought as hard as I could, but I just couldn't wrap my head around the timeframe, it suddenly seemed so insurmountable. I felt like a stupid gaping fish, because the answer was right there. I just couldn't see it.

"This is probably a lot to process for you. Perhaps we should stop for now, and let you take a nap before dinner, hmm?"

"Yeah," I said absentmindedly, my efforts ebbing out, as I felt the exhaust weighing down my limbs.

_____________________________

The next day, during the few hours I had for myself, I realised that I still couldn't remember the boyfriend. Which was probably because of the trauma, but still, I must have seen him after that, at some point.

"Has my boyfriend come to visit me too?" I asked John over a sandwich on the cafeteria. The question seemed to surprise him quite a bit. "Or perheaps we had broken up?" I asked suggestively, trying to show him that I wasn't broken up about it or anything, since I couldn't remember him anyways.

"I cannot answer that for you," was his reply. Weird.

"I mean I wouldn't blame him for reacting..," I paused trying to find the right word, "reacting in any odd way, really. It can't have been nice for him either. It was probably even worse, you know, seeing someone you care about being... treated... that way, and not being able to do anything." 

I tried make eye contact with him, but he had just closed up tighter. Dread suddenly filled me.

"Oh, my god. He hasn't killed himself has he? Oh god, John, please tell me he hasn't!"

I was speaking super fast, but John was just shaking his head no, looking like he was about to cry. "He is alive and well. I have to. Go. Get something," and with no further ado, he got up and walked to the doors, pausing for a second before he left the cafeteria.

_____________________________

I willed my eyes open. It was in the middle of the night. "John." I called out into the dark. I sat up, very much still feeling the icy grasp of my nightmare. I felt disgusting, and I wanted to throw up. Not because I felt ill, but because I wanted to expell the horrible sensation exploding in my brain. I remembered. I remembered everything. I grabbed my head in my hands and started rocking back and forth automatically. "John. John, John, John. John, John, John, John, John, John," my monotonous voice called. Tears were streaming down my face. 

Suddenly I felt his soft hand on my back, and the air rushed out of my lungs as if he had just given me a thump in the stomach. I collapsed. My system collapsed, and I cried helplessly and rocked, and he stroked my hair and I cried harder. I felt sick, and my head hurt - painfully like I had needles in my brain, and I was pushing my forehead against his sternum screaming: "I DON'T WANT TO REMEMBER!" and my tears were soaking his shirt, and it was purepain, I wanted to die, and I remembered cutting myself open and the relief, the blood and the relief, and I just wanted everything to stop, Iwould just stop, not exist, not feel anything at all. But I also remebered who John was, and he was not a nurse, he was a doctor. My doctor. But not a part of the staff. He was my boyfriend, my John, and he had been with me all this time, and I hadn't even known, hadn't recognized him, and now my tears and snot were smeared on his shirt, and I was disgusting, but he kept stroking my hair, and I was back with him, and he hadn't left me after all. He was there. Warm and right and holding me to him. After a while I could make out his soothing voice, humming. The force of his lungs, exspanding and collapsing, took over my own rocking movements, and I began to relax, even though it hurt. And it was hard. But he just kept stroking my hair and humming to me, and eventually I managed to dose off again.

_____________________________

When I woke up next time, my face felt swollen and my wretched brain wailed in pain. It honestly felt like a hangover. I slowly realised that I was lying against a seated John, still halfway clinging to me, his head at an odd angle. He must have a sore neck. His mouth was open, and he looked endearingly funny, moist at the corner of his mouth. He looked horribly beautiful.

I turned my head slowly, so as not to wake him, and looked out the window. It was early. Probably around six. The birds were chirping and I closed my eyes. Fucking birds. How did they stay so happy?

I tried to focus on the comfort of the soft covers and the very warm body against my back and head. I hadn't been this close to him in a long, long time. God, how I had missed him: In the time after the attack, when he had ripped a hole in me by keeping away from me, but also the entire last month. I just hadn't known what it was, that empty spot in my chest. I hated him and I loved him so much. Too much. Tears trickled down the side of my face, but I didn't dare to brush them away.

I forced myself to think of that night. Ever strong and capable John, forced to kneel in that ally. I could still hear his pathetic cries and pleas, sounding different through his broken nose, but I couldn't see his face poperly. A shoulder kept blocking my view, then revealing it, then blocking it again. I focused instead on John's trouser leg: His dark, loose-fitting jeans, that were splotched with dirt and oil. It was his favourite jeans, but now he would have to throw them out. I pictured his leg behind it, strong and pale. I smiled. I wanted him to see my face, so he would know that I loved him and everything would be okay. No matter what, I loved him.

I tried to remember the pain and the disgust, I must have felt, but I couldn't recall it. I remembered my body feeling numb, as if I was only existing in my brain, and I vaguely remembered the changing bodies above me. One big and broad, one heavy and gross looking, one tall and skinny yet strong, and finally, someone young. Too young.

After they were all done, and the leader had kicked John in the kidney one last time, they left. They didn't even run; just walked on down the alley bantering like a group of excited monkeys. I blisfully curled up on my side, finally able to look at John. He was completely collapsed, still on his knees. He looked dead: his chin touching his chest and his arms hanging limblessly down his sides. Slowly, and with great effort, I dragged myself towards him, and put my head on his knees, just as the sirens began to sound. I didn't remember him reacting.

It was hard to believe that it was that broken man, that had been taking care of me for all this time. I could realise now the guilt his must be feeling. Guilt, that was absolutely useless to me, but hopefully he still felt love for me as well. I honestly wished nothing but good things for him, even as I didn't want him to leave. I nuzzled against his chest, feeling my heart, and with it my sorrow, expand. But I was just too worn out to cry any more. 

Before I had time to fall back to sleep, John began stirring. I felt him lift his head and heard a painful moan, that I couldn't help but smiling at. 

"Good morning," I whispered to let him know I was awake. He grunted in response, and once again my heart filled with love.

"So, just so we're clear, and before you dare move out of my bed, I need to know: did we ever break up?"

"Not... officially," he trailed off, and I couldn't tell whether he was glad of it or not.

"Good."

"I won't leave until you ask me to." He whispered. I turned around clumsily and grasped him and cried tears I didn't have.

_____________________________ 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading ;) I hope to return to this and write more, but I am horrible at reprising works. I'd be happy to hear from you, even if it's just to say hi :)


End file.
